Читать книгу River Daughter - Jane Hardstaff - Страница 9

‘Moss!’ Pa was calling from the forge.

‘Coming Pa!’ Moss beat the soil from her hands and clomped in from the vegetable patch where she’d been digging up skirrets. Pa was already pumping the bellows, sparks shooting out of the fire.

‘Here.’ She shook the skinny fist of roots. ‘Not too bad for a second crop. If Salter gets us some rabbits, we’ll have a good stew.’

Salter had gone at first light. Moss had heard him from her pallet in the little alcove by the fire. She’d said nothing, just listened to the sound of him pulling his boots on, munching on a hunk of bread while he dressed. She’d wriggled down under her blanket. These noises were as familiar to her now as the crackle of logs. It was as though Salter had always lived with them.

Pa was tying the beaten leather apron behind his back. She looked to the table. On it was a little jug with a sprig of hazel poking out of the top. She’d placed it there for Pa that morning before she’d gone out. All those months ago when she’d walked out of the Tower with no word of where she was going, Pa was so distraught it had almost killed him. A sprig of leaves or a few flowers left in the jug was her unspoken way of telling him that she was coming back. That she loved him.

‘Farmer Bailey’s bringing up Big Sal for shoeing this morning,’ said Pa. ‘She’s an old mare and no mistake. Most wouldn’t bother with an animal you can neither ride nor work. But Farmer Bailey’s got a soft spot for that horse.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ said Moss. ‘He leads her to the sweetest meadow grass. Talks to her while she eats.’

Pa smiled. ‘Would you say she listens?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she does. And you know, Pa, I think Big Sal talks to Farmer Bailey too.’

Pa nodded. ‘It’s a rare friendship, that one. Men like to think they are the master of beasts. But I don’t think Big Sal would agree.’ He took down the hammer, tongs and creaser from their hooks on the wall.

Moss watched him lay his tools neatly next to the anvil. Gentle, careful Pa. Who avoided the river if he could and liked to walk the woods at sunset. Moss had spent many evenings last autumn crunching through the leaves by his side. This way, little by little, Moss had learnt of her mother. That she was green-eyed and tangle-haired. That she had freckles on her nose and a dimple in her cheek and was so much like her daughter. That she sang when she was sad. That she’d once climbed to the top of a tree to pick a red-ripe apple, just for Pa.

Moss clutched at these fragments of her mother. But no matter how hard she tried to make Pa’s memories her own, she couldn’t. They were from a distant place that only he could reach. All the same, she clung to them. They were all she had.

‘There are still blackberries in West Woods,’ said Moss. ‘I’ll go up there now, see if I can catch Salter on his way back.’

‘Just a minute.’

‘What is it?’

‘Over there,’ said Pa. ‘There’s something for you.’

‘For me?’

There was a sackcloth bundle on the table, tied with string.

‘Open it,’ said Pa.

Moss pulled at the string and the sackcloth fell away. Inside was more cloth, a smooth, tightly-woven wool. Carefully, Moss picked it up, unfurled it.

‘Oh, Pa.’

It was a dress. Soft and green. The colour of new leaves.

‘Pa, how did you –?’

‘We’ve been plenty busy since we got here,’ he said. ‘Shod horses, mended hoes, made new knives for the innkeeper. Our first year was a good year, Moss. And you’ve outgrown those old rags you’ve had since goodness knows when.’

‘But this must have cost so much, Pa.’

‘Well, never mind that.’ He smiled and his tired face brightened, and Moss could see how happy it made him to give her this dress.

‘I’ll try it on,’ she said.

She tucked herself into her little alcove, pulled off her old dress and tugged the new one over her head. The wool was light against her skin. Compared to the scratch of the coarse garments she’d always worn, this was like stepping into silk. She stared down at herself, then felt suddenly shy.

‘Well?’ said Pa, ‘Does it fit you?’

‘It does, Pa,’ said Moss, ‘It’s the most beautiful dress.’

She wrapped her skinny arms tight around him. Pa had worked so hard to build this life for them. How could she possibly think something was missing?

‘Pa,’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you sometimes think of her?’

Pa loosened Moss’s hug so he could look into her face.

‘Your mother?’

Moss nodded.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Does she seem far away?’

‘Well, yes and no. Sometimes I think I can still hear her.’

‘Really?’

‘Not actual words. It’s more . . . the feel of her voice. Outside. In the grass, or blown by the wind.’

‘And do you . . . do you ever, see her?’

Pa’s gaze went through Moss, to that distant place only he could reach. ‘Perhaps just a trace. It’s been so long.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think your old Pa’s a little crazy?’

‘No, Pa.’ She hugged him tight. ‘I really don’t.’

Outside, there was a clatter of hooves. A ruddy-cheeked man poked his head into the forge.

‘Mornin, Samuel!’

‘Morning, Farmer Bailey,’ said Pa. ‘Got Big Sal with you? Tie her to the post. I’ll be right out.’

As Moss left the forge, Pa and Farmer Bailey were deep in talk of horses and Big Sal and how fine a friend she was to Farmer Bailey, who would be sorry to lose her when the time came.

Moss hopped over the fence and waded through the long meadow grass. Salter would be well into the woods by now, checking his traps. Thank goodness for rabbits, she thought, for there was precious little meat. Here in the village, the sheep were for wool or milk and the pigs went to market. She hadn’t seen a ham since Twelfth Night. What a ham it had been, though. On Mrs Bailey’s kitchen table, glistening with honey and pocked with cloves. And Mrs Bailey must have seen her face pop, because she’d sent a good piece round to Pa the next day. They’d eaten it that evening, savouring every morsel of that sweet, spiced meat. But mostly they lived on stew made from the vegetables that Moss grew, fish from the river and bread bought with Pa’s earnings. And the rabbits.

It was poaching of course. The woods belonged to Sir John, and although Salter said the gamekeepers were as dozy as a cow in a hot field, he risked a chopped hand if he was caught. Nevertheless, he’d become bold and somehow he always seemed to be one step ahead. He lured the rabbits with cabbage leaves and turnips. He never set his traps in the same place. He was crafty and quiet. Neither the keepers nor the rabbits stood a chance.

By the treeline, Moss found the blackberry bushes and had just begun to fill her basket when she spotted Salter coming out of the woods with several grey rabbits flopped over his shoulder.

‘Four young bucks,’ said Salter. ‘Not a bad mornin’s work.’

‘Enough for stew.’

‘And some left over. Goin to take em to the Nut Tree now, see if I can’t sell a couple to Old Samser.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘If you like, but leave the barterin to me, Leatherboots, or I’ll end up with nuppence for me trouble.’

‘But I always feel so sorry for Old Samser. This isn’t London, where everyone’s looking for a way to rip each other off, you know. They do things differently here.’

‘You reckon so? Well, don’t feel too sorry for that old goat. He may be slow, but he ain’t stupid. If I let him, he’d play me like a fiddle. Anyway, a bit of bargainin keeps everyone on their toes.’

It was only ten o’clock but already smoke was puffing from the windows of the Nut Tree Inn. Salter pushed at the door and they threaded their way through the tumble of voices. No one batted an eyelid at the rabbits. Like Salter, many of the villagers poached for a bit of meat and the Nut Tree was where you sold or traded any you couldn’t eat yourself.

Old Samser stood at the top of the cellar steps, jug in hand. Wagging her tail against his leg was Poppy, Old Samser’s spaniel, staring up at Salter’s rabbits with hopeful eyes.

‘Eyes off them rabbits, Poppy,’ said Salter, letting the dog lick his hand. ‘They ain’t fer you.’

Old Samser chuckled. ‘Mornin, Moss, mornin, Salter-boy. What you got there, then?’

‘Two young bucks, Samser, if I likes the price.’

Moss knelt down beside Poppy and ruffled her shaggy coat, catching a wink from the old landlord. He was well used to Salter’s cheekiness.

‘Bain’t no lad in the village can trap rabbits like the boy here. He’s a sly city fox, this one. If he can’t get yer one way, he’ll get yer another.’

‘A groat buys you two rabbits, take it or leave it,’ said Salter.

‘Threefarthin,’ said Old Samser.

‘Are you out of yer mind? Three pennies and I ain’t goin no lower.’

‘Two pennies and yer backsides can warm themselves by my fire.’

‘Our backsides don’t need warmin,’ said Salter. ‘No deal.’

Moss found herself smiling. She had to admit, there was something very satisfying about watching Salter hold his nerve. But Old Samser wasn’t backing down just yet.

‘Two pennies and a jug of my best to take back for yer Pa.’

Salter shook his head. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, landlord.’

‘All right then, two pennies, three farthin and the jug.’

‘Three pennies and you can have the pick of these fine rabbits, whichever two you like.’

Old Samser chuckled. ‘All right, all right. Three pennies it is. It’s a hard bargain you drives, Salter-boy. There’s farmers round here could learn a thing or two from you.’

When Old Samser had chosen his rabbits, Salter pulled a couple of apples from his pocket and he and Moss sat down to enjoy the sight of the farmers coming in from milking. With them shuffled a weary drover who sank back on the settle by the fire. He sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, until Old Samser brought him a plate of bread and hot mutton and a large mug of ale.

‘Old Samser’s no fool,’ said Salter, ‘He knows that drover’s come from London with tired feet and a full purse.’

‘Well, keep your fingers to yourself,’ said Moss. She was pretty sure Salter hadn’t thieved since they came to the village, but stealing had been a way of life for him back in London. And while that was all very well in a city of strangers with plenty of dark alleyways to hide in, here in the village if someone lost so much as a wooden spoon everyone knew about it.

The drover finished his plate, mopping the fat with a crust of bread. Then he sat back to let Old Samser refill his mug.

‘Good price for your cattle, drover?’ said Old Samser.

‘Could be better, could be worse,’ said the drover.

‘Mmm,’ nodded Old Samser, letting his customer gulp down the contents of his mug. ‘And news from the city? We don’t get much of it out here, but we likes to know what the talk is.’

‘Fill her up then, innkeeper,’ said the drover. Old Samser obliged, and the drover sat back on the settle, one hand on a full stomach, the other on a full mug.

‘Well now, let’s see. King Henry still won’t see his daughters. They say that Mary’s as stubborn as he is, with a temper that would burn down a barn. And the redhead Elizabeth is too young to know any different. Out of sight, out of mind. I suppose they remind him of his first two wives, both cold in the ground.’

‘And what of the new Queen?’ asked Old Samser. ‘We heard she is with child.’

‘Yes, yes, there’s much talk of Queen Jane. Grown fat as a pot-bellied oak and took to her chambers at Hampton Court some weeks back. The King has set a guard around the walls that would keep out the whole French army! Pray for all our sakes she gives him a son and heir.’

‘Even a king needs the luck.’ Old Samser twisted the end of his beard. ‘We in these parts hopes the best for Queen Jane. Grew up not five mile from here, in Savernake.’

‘Is that so?’ said the drover. ‘Well, she’ll squeeze out her pup soon enough. If it’s a boy, she may keep her title and her head. If not, then I wouldn’t be in her dainty shoes for all the crowns in Christendom. Old Harry is going through wives like a pig through a bag of carrots!’

‘True enough,’ said Old Samser, and he began to chant, ‘Queen Catherine left to rot poor soul, Queen Anne went for the chop. ’ The rhyme produced a ripple of laughter from the drinkers.

Moss swallowed. She hated the songs and the jokes. People had never liked Anne Boleyn. When she was alive, they’d called her the Firecracker Queen. Now she was dead they called her a witch and had only cruel things to say in her memory. But Moss had met the Queen. Two winters ago in a snow-covered garden at Hampton Court. Hungry and cold, Moss had followed her nose through a kitchen window, eaten a pigeon and strayed into the Kings Garden. And when the Queen had found her there, instead of being angry and calling for the guards, Anne Boleyn had talked to her. She’d told Moss how the King had loved her once, how she’d made him laugh and how she’d gone looking for adventure. And though at the time she’d seemed full of mischief, when Moss thought of her now it was as a wandering ghost, frail and forlorn.

Moss’s hand went to her pocket. In it was the little silver bird she always kept there. A gift from Queen Anne. Even though the silverwork was very fine, she’d never thought to sell it. It had saved her life. Hold on to love, wherever you can find it, the Queen had told her. It is a most precious thing. The words had settled, like leaves on a pond.

‘What you waitin for Leatherboots? Come on!’ Salter was on his feet and heading out of the door, coins jangling in his pocket.

She followed him outside, then stopped. ‘You go on. I’ll catch you up.’

Salter nodded. ‘Two rabbits, three pennies. That’s a good mornin’s work.’ He slung the rabbits over his shoulder. ‘Oh, Leatherboots,’

‘Yes?’

‘Yer new dress. Looks, well . . . all right.’

Moss felt her cheeks flush and turned quickly in the other direction. She didn’t think he’d noticed. And anyway, what did it matter if he had?

All Moss could hear was birdsong.

It was a quietness that she knew she would never take for granted. No shouts, no rumble of cartwheels, and no one to call her back. The clamour of the city was a world away from the lush green fields that lay before her. Moss hitched up her dress and climbed the fence, dropping onto the grass on the other side. This was a well-worn shortcut to the place where she and Salter swam and fished, and she hurried there eagerly now.

The water was clear. Flowing gently once more. But the river felt different. On the banks the fish stranded yesterday had begun to rot, their scales curling to a dull grey.

Moss pulled out her apple-sack tunic from the willow tree. There was no one about, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to change on the open riverbank, so she darted into the bushes. Still damp from yesterday, the cloth was cold against her skin.

Back on the riverbank, she stared out over the water. The crowfoot stroked the river bed, soothing her thoughts. Into her head shimmered the face she thought she’d seen, its green eyes so like her own.

Slowly Moss lowered herself from the bank into the water. As always, the cold took her breath away. She bobbed her shoulders under, panting short gasps until her body got used to the numbing chill. Then she kicked off from the bank and dived down. Halfway across she stopped and stood to watch the sway of the crowfoot. There was nothing here. Just waterweed.

Moss lay back in the current and then flipped over, sinking her head below the surface. She blinked as the water swirled past her eyes. The chalk river was so clear she could see all the way to the stones on the bottom. Moss had never stopped marvelling at this shimmering world. It was a quiet place that belonged to the creatures and plants, and Moss was always glad to be among them.

Something caught her eye. Hidden among the weeds. She could not make it out. A dark shape. A shadow. Moving away from her.

Moss kicked her feet hard, trying to reach the crowfoot before the shadow disappeared. She parted the weed, following the tail of the shadow, feeling slippery greenness all around.

Where are you?

Could a ghost hear your thoughts?

She bobbed her head above the water to take another gulp of air and when she sank back down, there it was.

The face.

Green eyes, hair coiling, arms reaching. A gentle face, smooth as milk. A mirror of herself. And Moss could not help but stretch her own arms towards the ghostly figure.

She felt her hands clasped by ice-cold fingers.

Who are you?

The gentle ghost tried to smile, as though she had understood Moss’s unspoken question.

But something was wrong.

The face was changing. The milk-smooth skin was flaking away. Peeling, tearing, paper-thin flakes hanging from her cheeks. The ghostly mouth parted as if to say something, then began dissolving before Moss’s eyes. Now it gaped at Moss, half torn, teeth rooted in bare bone. A dead face. A skull face, lit by strange candle eyes. A face Moss knew too well.

The Riverwitch.

Moss wrenched her hands from the bone-cold grasp and burst to the surface. She scrabbled backwards, splashing and stumbling, trying to reach the bank. But winding its way round her ankles was the twisting waterweed, holding her fast to the river bed.

Up through the clear water rose the Riverwitch. Her tattered dress rippled outwards, her skull face breaking the surface of the river.

‘River Daughter . . . now the Blacksmith’s Daughter, are you not?’

‘I . . . I thought you had gone,’ said Moss.

The Riverwitch said nothing.

‘Why?’ asked Moss. ‘Why have you come back?’

‘You know why.’ The Witch’s eyes flared. ‘I saved your life when you were born. But in return a promise was made. You were to come to me on your twelfth birthday.’

‘And I did come. That day on the river. I jumped. I gave myself to you.’

Above the trickle of the river the Witch’s voice hissed, ‘Tell me, what do you remember of that day?’

Moss opened her mouth to speak. Some of it was so clear – stepping from the raft into the murky water where the Riverwitch lay waiting, Salter’s cry as she was dragged down. But after that the pictures in her head ran thin as a poor man’s broth. There was the darkness of the deep river. The bone-arms of the Riverwitch circling her. Moss’s own arms embracing that cold body. And as she’d drifted into blackness, the grasp of the Witch had slackened. Then she remembered no more.

‘Why?’ said Moss. ‘Why did you let me go?’

The Riverwitch inclined her head slowly. ‘The embrace of a child.’ She spread her arms. ‘The embrace of a child has the power to thaw a Witch’s frozen heart.’

‘So . . .’

‘So that day I let you go. But do not forget. You were promised to me. A child born in water, you shall return to water. You belong to me.’

‘No!’ Moss kicked out at the coils of weed that bound her feet, but they held fast.

‘Do not struggle. You cannot fight me, River Daughter. I am the swirl and suck of the river. Its currents and its mysteries pass through me. They have made me strong. And I have watched you swimming the river. I’ve seen your eyes open to its treasures and its terrors.’

Something clicked inside Moss’s head.

‘The mud yesterday, in the river . . . It was sucking me down,’ she said, ‘but something pulled me free. Was it you ?’

The Witch’s face stretched into a painful smile.

‘But why?’ said Moss. ‘Why save me again, if you are going to take me now?’

The water began to churn and the Witch grew suddenly agitated, her body twisting, the fronds of her dress whisking this way and that.

‘There is something you can do for me,’ said the Witch slowly, ‘A way for you to earn your freedom.’

‘My freedom?’ echoed Moss.

‘What I ask will not be easy. But if you succeed, I will release you.’

The churning river quietened and for a few moments there was just silence between them, the Witch’s body swaying in the current.

‘Isn’t that what you want, River Daughter? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?’

Moss hesitated. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘This thing you want me to do?’

‘All in good time, River Daughter. First you must leave this village.’

‘Leave? Leave Pa and Salter?’

‘Leave this place. Go back. To London.’

‘But London is miles and miles. Three days walk at least.’

‘You shall travel by river.’

‘But I can’t just disappear. Pa needs me.’

The Witch’s lantern eyes held her. How could I have mistaken this face for my mother’s ? thought Moss. She’d wanted to believe it so badly. But all the time it was the Riverwitch.

The Witch held up two ghostly hands. The tips of her fingers were black. She gestured to the dead fish on the bank.

‘It has begun,’ she said.

‘What has begun?’

But the Witch’s torn body was sinking back into the river. As the weed closed over her head, her words mixed with the trickle of water.

‘The river rots . . .’

Then Moss felt the tendrils loosen around her feet.

The Riverwitch had gone.